General Books

BEST NONSENSE VERSES FATHER WILLIAM OU are old, father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white:And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain:But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again."... more...

MIST IN THE VALLEYIMist in the valley, weeping mistBeset my homeward way.No gleam of rose or amethystHallowed the parting day;A shroud, a shroud of awful greyWrapped every woodland brow,And drooped in crumbling disarrayAround each wintry bough.IIAnd closer round me now it clungUntil I scarce could seeThe stealthy pathway overhungBy silent tree and treeWhich floated in that mysteryAs—poised in... more...

How Lisa loved the King. Six hundred years ago, in Dante’s time,Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme;When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story,Was like a garden tangled with the gloryOf flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown,Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown,Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars,And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars,Crowd every shady... more...

ADAM MICKIEWICZ (1798-1855) The last of the eighteenth century was an important period for Russia and Poland, not only politically, but in letters and art. It marked the birth of statesmen, patriots, poets and writers. It was into a Poland of great names and greater activities that Adam Mickiewicz was born in 1798, as son of an impoverished family of the old nobility. Three years before, the third and... more...

GUARDS! A Review in Hyde Park 1913.The Crowd Watches. WHERE the trees rise like cliffs, proud and  blue-tinted in the distance,Between the cliffs of the trees, on the grey-  green parkRests a still line of soldiers, red motionless range of  guardsSmouldering with darkened busbies beneath the bay-  onets' slant rain. Colossal in nearness a blue police sits still on his horseGuarding the... more...

THE TRUMPET RISE up, rise up,And, as the trumpet blowingChases the dreams of men,As the dawn glowingThe stars that left unlitThe land and water,Rise up and scatterThe dew that coversThe print of last night's lovers—Scatter it, scatter it! While you are listeningTo the clear horn,Forget, men, everythingOn this earth newborn,Except that it is lovelierThan any mysteries.Open your eyes to the... more...

The prologe.   WHan I aduert in my remembraunce The famous draughtes of poetes eloquent Whiche theyr myndes dyd well enhaunce Bokes to contryue that were expedyent To be remembred without Impedyment For the profyte of humanyte This was the custume of antyquyte. I now symple and moost rude And naked in depured eloquence For dulnes rethoryke doth exclude Wherfore in makynge I lake intellygence Also... more...

THE piping of our slender, peaceful reedsWhispers uncared for while the trumpets bray;Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting playBeats time but to the tread of marching deeds,Following the mighty van that Freedom leads,Her glorious standard flaming to the day!The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleedsBreathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay.Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are... more...

No one can have reflected on the history of genius without being impressed with a melancholy feeling at the obscurity in which the lives of the poets of our country are, with few exceptions, involved. That they lived, and wrote, and died, comprises nearly all that is known of many, and, of others, the few facts which are preserved are often records of privations, or sufferings, or errors. The cause of... more...

Who killed Cock Robin?With my bow and arrow,I, said the Sparrow,I kill'd Cock Robin.Who saw him die?With my little eye,I, said the Fly,I saw him die.Who caught his blood?With my little dish,I, said the Fish,I caught his blood.Who'll make his shroud?With my thread and needle,I, said the Beetle,I'll make his shroud.Who'll dig his grave?With my spade and trowel,I, said the Owl,I'll... more...